When I look in the mirror in the morning, I can tell what kind of a day I will have by the bags under my eyes. Hand-luggage is fine - we're all carrying a little something by the time we hit 47. But if my underlids bulge with a full set of suitcases, it means I've slept badly and will do most other things badly until another night unpacks the problem. I don't care about wrinkles or lines.

I watch myself while I'm cleaning my teeth and tell myself little stories, as I have done since I was a child. After the morning water-slosh, I use incredibly expensive grooming products and congratulate myself on two things: never having shaved or plucked my eyebrows, and that I don't have a single grey hair, which is either due to my halo, my wicked ways or the generous genetics of my unknown parents. Whatever the answer, it means I'm not worrying about roots. The day I do will be major trauma.

I am very fit. I can easily run five miles, and work out three times a week, so there are no bulges or cellulite. Of course, my tits aren't round my ears any more, but I've a drawer-full of Wonderbras, so who cares?

Some days I look like a dog, but I like dogs. I think the secret of body-happiness is to look after yourself with love and attention, and realise that the mirror-image is only a part of the whole. The parts I can't see in the mirror have a lot to do with how I feel about what I can see.

If the day comes when I want a facelift, I will have one. When I feel really manky, I get a list of Harley Street numbers and stick them on the mirror. Then I laugh at myself, and I don't feel manky any more.